


The Crows

by Bonnie131313



Series: I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times... [3]
Category: Changeling: the Dreaming, Dark City (1998), Mirrors (2008)
Genre: Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Human Sacrifice, M/M, Slash, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:22:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6079167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bonnie131313/pseuds/Bonnie131313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daniel will do anything to be reunited with his lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Crows

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a fun fic. There is death, grief and despair. Be warned.

_“Rising up into the air, they took to the sky and flew. From west and beyond west, into the wind and through it, they came past countless moons and suns. One laughed and briefly wore a scarf of raindrops in her hair, and then with wicked feet she kicked a cloud and caused rain to swamp a boat.”_

_Pat O’Shea_

 

The crows are gathering.

He knows what the portents mean. So when he kisses his lover farewell , it is with the knowledge that is the last time in this life he will do so. He smiles up at Benen and whispers promises of love.

The Troll warrior also knows what the omens signify. Morrigan’s birds do not flock for the Roman dead. He holds the fair Sidhe tight until it is time to leave.

“I will see you again.” Is the vow when there is no more time.

“No matter what happens, we will be together again someday.” He swears softly. How many times have they found each other? How many lives have they led? Death will only separate them for a short time.

When the fighters have disappeared from view, he goes to the holy grove and waits. One day, three days perhaps it is ten; it hardly matters. He knows the instant his beloved dies.

The rage of the legions is implacable. Even the Freehold is no longer safe. He flees before the might of the empire. For months, he wanders. He is often cold, hungry and tired but it no longer matters. Many of the Freeholds are also under siege and the House of Liam is not welcome.

When the Unseelie find him, he does not flee. To his surprise, they offer him no insult. Instead, they take him back to their caves. A woolen blanket wrapped about his shoulders for warmth. He is offered bread and salt.

The Sluagh who comes to speak with him is the oldest he has ever seen. He listens as the elder explains what they wish of him in a low whisper. To the old grump’s surprise, he agrees instantly. He doubts it will work the way the Unseelie wish. Still, if there is a slight chance it will drive away the hated Romans. How can he refuse?

The wait seems interminable. He is ready and willing but the presages are not. Samhain the Slaugh tell him, the auguries are very clear. He is impatient, but what are a few more moons to him? He waits as best as he can.

The Sluagh are not unkind to him. The old one, Leabhar is cold but not cruel. The others seem more puzzled by him than anything else. There is one, Lámh Laochra, a deadly warrior to the Romans but oddly gentle with him. Sometimes he thinks the Slaugh might wish…but that part of him died with Benen. He has another purpose now.

He keeps busy, gathering herbs and brewing decoctions under the watchful gazed of the Slaugh. If they are grateful for his infusions, they never say. It does not matter. The healing potions are needed. Their kith fall to the Roman’s iron weapons just as humans do.

It is the last full moon before Samhain. The old one asks him again, and he stands in the center of the circle and swears on the cloch athrú. They escort him to the nemeton where he will wait out the last few days until Samhain.

Mostly they let him alone there, save Leabhar. There are rituals that must be done to prepare him and the old grump performs them diligently. Leabhar is still cold, but he also seems oddly regretful. Neither of them speaks of it.

One night Lámh Laochra slips secretly into the grove.

“It is not too late…” The pale warrior begins but it is, much too late.

“I have made a vow.” He tells the Slaugh.

Lámh Laochra frowns but he does not argue. For a time they stand there, and then the Slaugh takes out his knives and salutes him as one warrior to another. He never sees the fighter again.

The day finally comes. He is washed in water from a sacred spring. His hair is brushed until it shines. He is anointed with aromatic resins and sacred symbols are painted on his skin with woad.

He walks naked from the nemeton to the stone circle. Leabhar is waiting for him there. The ancient Slaugh gently blesses him and tenderly lays him on the cloch athrú.

 

The young legionnaire is horrified by what they find at the stone circle the Celtae worship at. They had been told the druid priests practiced human sacrifice but Ioannes had never heard of anything like this.

The beautiful man lies naked on the central stone that serves as an altar. His body had been painted blue and red. The blue is from that plant dye that the warriors smear on their bodies before a battle, the red is from blood.

He wonders why would they do this. Why kill one of their own in such a horrible way? The man had not struggled. His limbs had not been bound. There are no marks on the flesh to indicate they held the dead man down. The look on the dead face was calm, serene. Ioannes would expect horror or fear but that is not the case.

Ioannes shivers as he turns away and follows his fellow soldiers out from cluster of sarsens. The damned Druids had been stirring the populace against the empire. The scouts claimed a group of insurgents was nearby, his Maniple had been sent to try and draw them out.


End file.
